The submarine's cramped interior hummed with the stale, metallic tang of recycled air, its walls vibrating faintly from the distant groan of underwater currents. Pale blue light flickered from bioluminescent algae tubes bolted haphazardly to the ceiling—a Consortium "innovation" Charlie had dubbed "décor for the clinically depressed." Ace stirred first, his freckled face smooshed against the cold steel floor, a thread of drool connecting him to a technical manual titled Advanced Submersible Mechanics (Vol. 3: How Not to Die). The scent of nothing roused him—a void where breakfast ought to be.
He rolled onto his back, squinting at the algae-light. "Hey," he croaked, prodding Charlie's cheek with a charred stick he'd pocketed during yesterday's lava-serpent encounter. "Did you eat the last ration bar?"
Charlie sprawled facedown across a makeshift desk of crates, didn't lift his head. His glasses were askew, one lens cracked, and his fingers still clutched a quill pen buried in a ledger filled with feverish notes: Day 1: Island tried to kill us. Day 2: Island still trying. Hypothesis: Island is a sentient jerk. A half-empty inkwell teetered precariously beside a moldy coffee mug labeled #1 Archaeologist.
"I was documenting it," Charlie mumbled into the pages, his voice muffled by a sketch of Ace's fossilized hat. "For posterity. And science."
Ace sat up, stretching his arms until his joints popped. "Posterity's overrated. Breakfast isn't." He nudged Charlie's leg with his foot. "C'mon, spill. You've got that guilty 'I-ate-the-last-cookie' vibe."
Before Charlie could retort, the engine room hatch hissed open. Marya emerged like a grease-stained specter, her raven hair tied back with a frayed wire, her kogatana glinting at her throat. A smudge of engine oil streaked her forehead like war paint, and her gloves—once white—were now the color of despair. She tossed a dead transponder snail onto the table, where it clattered next to Charlie's inkwell.
"The transponder snail's a lost cause," she said, peeling off her gloves. "Turns out 'turning the dial' means the snail hums Kaido's theme song louder. And we're out of food."
Charlie finally lifted his head, leaving an ink-blotted cheekprint on his ledger. "Define 'out of food.'"
Marya pointed to a crumpled ration bar wrapper pinned to the wall by a dagger. The wrapper bore teeth marks. Ace's teeth marks.
"That was yesterday's lunch," Ace protested.
"That was today's lunch," Marya corrected. "You sleepwalk. And eat. Aggressively."
Ace grinned, unabashed. "Talent."
Charlie groaned, massaging his temples. "Priorities, people. The sub's dead, we're stranded, and the only thing broadcasting is our incompetence."
"Priorities," Ace echoed, suddenly solemn. He rose to his feet, nearly braining himself on a low-hanging pipe, and pressed his palms to the foggy viewport. "My hat's still up there."
Outside, the Spire of Ash loomed like a petulant god, its jagged peak clawing at the dawn-streaked sky. At its summit, Ace's beloved orange hat—now fossilized into a permanent middle finger of ash—gleamed mockingly in the sunrise.
"It's waving at me," Ace said wistfully.
"It's a hat," Marya snapped. "And it's dead."
"You don't know that!" Ace whirled, pointing an accusatory marshmallow skewer at her. "It's… hibernating. Like a bear. A very stylish bear."
Charlie squinted at the spire. "If by 'hibernating' you mean 'turned to stone by a volcano's spite,' then sure."
Marya ignored them, crouching to pry open the sub's control panel with the finesse of a street surgeon. Inside, a tangle of wires spat sparks, and the burnt-out fuse—a tiny, pepper-shaped crystal—smoldered sadly in its socket. "We need a replacement volcanic quartz fuse. Without it, the emergency beacons as useless as Ace's hat."
Ace gasped, clutching his chest. "Low blow."
Charlie leaned over her shoulder, squinting. "Volcanic quartz? That's… oddly specific."
"It's what the manual says." Marya brandished Advanced Submersible Mechanics like a weapon. "Page 42: 'In the event of catastrophic failure, replace fuse with volcanic quartz (see Chapter 7: Why You Should've Stayed Home).'"
"So we find one," Ace said, shrugging. "How hard can it be?"
Marya shot him a look that could curdle milk. "On this island? The last 'shop' we saw sold cursed cutlery and a mummified mermaid."
"We'll improvise!" Ace lobbed a marshmallow at Charlie, who ducked. "Pawn shops, black markets, tourist traps—every island's got a shady guy in a back room. I'll trade…" He patted his pockets, producing a lint-covered candy, a soggy map of the Grand Line, and a suspiciously glowing pebble. "Treasure."
Charlie eyed the pebble. "Is that radioactive?"
"Only a little."
Marya sighed, long-suffering. "Fine. But we're also finding food. Real food. Not whatever Ace considers edible."
"Hey, those lava-serpent kebabs were gourmet!"
"They tried to eat us back."
The trio surfaced, squinting in the harsh morning light. The sub's hatch creaked open, releasing a puff of stale air that smelled vaguely of burnt marshmallows and regret. Isla Koralia sprawled before them, its sugar-cane forests shimmering unnervingly in the distance, while the Spire of Ash cast a long, judgmental shadow over the harbor.
Ace hopped onto the dock, immediately tripping over a "KEEP HUMBLE (OR ELSE)" sign buried in the sand. "Charming place. Really leans into the passive-aggressive decor."
Charlie adjusted his cracked glasses, scanning the ramshackle storefronts. "There—Titan's Trinkets. Looks like a pawn shop run by a tax evader."
The shop hunched at the end of the dock, its roof sagging under the weight of rusted anchors and a faded sign that read, "WE BUY SOULS (NEGOTIABLE)." A bell jangled as they entered, summoning a shopkeeper with one eye, three teeth, and a pet eel draped around his neck like a living scarf.
"Welcome," the man rasped, stroking the eel. "Looking for something… specific?"
Marya slapped the burnt fuse on the counter. "Volcanic quartz. Now."
The shopkeeper—Barma, according to his nametag "Don't Ask"—leaned closer, his eel hissing. "Ah, fancy fuse, fancy price."
Ace plopped his "treasure" onto the counter: the glowing pebble, the lint candy, and a button that read "I Survived Kaido's Karaoke Night."
Barma stared. "...I'll take the marshmallows."
"Deal!" Ace tossed him a squashed bag.
Barma sighed, gesturing to a back room guarded by a snarling tumbleweed. "Quartz is in there. Try not to die."
While Marya dueled the tumbleweed (It's got a knife?!"), Ace scaled the Spire, his hands blackened by ash, his grin undimmed. "Almost… there…" he grunted, fingertips brushing the fossilized brim of his hat.
Below, Charlie cupped his hands around his mouth. "ACE, THE ASH PLUME'S SOLIDIFYING! YOU'LL TURN INTO A STATUE!"
"I'LL BE A FASHIONABLE STATUE!"
The spire's peak began to glimmer, dawn's light transforming the ash-plume into glassy stone. Ace's boot slipped—
THWACK.
A propelled rock smacked him in the rear, sending him tumbling into a soft dune of ash. Marya stood below, quartz fuse in hand, glaring. "Priorities, remember?"
Ace spat out a mouthful of ash. "Worth it."
The ash wasn't from the Spire of Ash this time. No, this was culinary ash—spewed from the chimney of The Sulking Squid, a ramshackle tavern wedged between Isla Koralia's obsidian cliffs and a sugar cane field that smelled suspiciously of burnt caramel. The trio's stomachs growled in unison.
"If the food here is half as dramatic as the island," Charlie muttered, adjusting his ash-dusted glasses, "we'll either die of spice or poetry."
Inside, the tavern was a symphony of chaos. Beast Pirates in half-unbuttoned uniforms arm-wrestled over plates of smoking "volcano nachos." A live eel slithered across the bar, stealing sips of rum. And in the corner, a bard strummed a lute while reciting haikus about Kaido's hairline.
Ace beelined to the counter. "Three of whatever's least likely to kill us!"
The bartender, a hulking man with a tattoo of Kaido's dragon form coiled around his neck, slammed down three mugs of bubbling black liquid. "Ember Ale. Burns twice—goin' in and comin' out."
Marya eyed the ale. "We'll take food. Actual food."
The bartender grinned, revealing a gold tooth engraved with a Jolly Roger. "Chef's choice it is."
The dish arrived: a wobbly tower of fried dough, drenched in neon-orange sauce and studded with what Charlie swore were eyeballs. "Behold," the bartender announced, "Humble Pie—Isla Koralia's finest!"
Ace took a bite. "Tastes like vinegar. And… cinnamon?"
Marya poked it with a dagger. "Is this meat moving?"
"It's fermented," the bartender said proudly. "Guaranteed to enhance your Haki… or your funeral."
Charlie, ever the academic, scribbled notes. "Fascinating! The enzymes could theoretically—" Ace shoved a forkful into Charlie's mouth. The archaeologist's face cycled through horror, enlightenment, and existential dread. "Tastes like… annexation," Charlie gasped.
Mid-bite, the tavern door burst open. A winded local screamed, "WHO DREW IN THE SAND OUTSIDE?!"
Marya froze, sauce dripping down her chin. "…I mapped our route." The room fell silent. The bard's lute snapped a string.
"High tide's comin'," the bartender growled. "You'll be slippin' for hours, fools."
As if summoned, a wave crashed against the window. The floorboards lurched, and Ace's stool skidded sideways. He slid toward the exit, mug in hand, cackling. "Wheee!"
Marya lunged, misting her legs to anchor herself, and snagged Ace's collar. Charlie wasn't so lucky—he windmilled across the room, ricocheting off pirates like a pinball, before face-planting into a plate of nachos. "Graceful," Marya deadpanned.
Two hours, seven wiped-out patrons, and one eel-induced food fight later, the trio slumped outside, their boots squeaking on the treacherously frictionless sand.
"Well," Ace said, picking a pepper out of his teeth, "breakfast was…"
"A disaster," Marya said.
"Educational," Charlie croaked, green-tinged.
Ace belched, igniting a small fireball. "Adventurous."
As they trudged back to the sub, the bartender watched from the doorway, dialing a Den Den Mushi. "Kaido? Yeah. They're here. And dumber than they look."
*****
The G-5 Marine Base loomed like a scar on the edge of the New World, its stone walls pockmarked by cannon fire and salt-stained from decades of raging storms. Nestled in a jagged cove, the fortress was a labyrinth of rusted iron gates, barred windows, and docks choked with warships bearing the Marine emblem—their hulls streaked with bloodred algae from skirmishes with pirate armadas. Inside the courtyard, recruits drilled under the cracked gaze of a crumbling statue of Justice, their shouts drowned by the shrieks of seagulls circling overhead. The air reeked of gunpowder, seaweed, and the faint metallic tang of fear.
Vergo's office was a windowless vault deep within the fortress, lit by a single flickering gas lamp. Maps of the New World papered the walls, their corners curled and yellowed, marked with cryptic symbols only he understood. A half-eaten platter of congealed fried rice sat atop his desk, flanked by stacks of reports stamped CLASSIFIED and a dented coffee cup crusted with old brew. The room smelled of soy sauce and neglect.
The Den Den Mushi on his desk contorted suddenly, its face twisting into the bartender's smirking visage. "Kaido? Yeah. They're here. And dumber than they look."
Vergo leaned back in his creaking chair, his pristine white trench coat stark against the grime-coated walls. A frenched fry clung to his cheek like a barnacle, leftover from a hurried meal hours earlier. His gloved hand—stained with grease and something darker—crushed the snail's shell with a crack, silencing the informant.
"Prepare my ship," he said, his voice a gravelly monotone.
His adjutant, a wiry young Marine with a fresh bruise blooming on his jawline, hesitated in the doorway. The man's uniform hung loosely, buttons misaligned, as though dressed in the dark. "Sir, your patrol shift isn't for another—"
The thud of Vergo's bamboo staff striking the wall beside the adjutant's head reverberated through the room. Plaster rained down as the recruit flinched, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Did. I. Ask." Vergo didn't raise his voice. He never needed to.
The adjutant scrambled backward, nearly tripping over a loose floorboard. "N-No, sir! Right away, sir!"
Vergo watched him flee, then reached for the Den Den Mushi again. The snail's face melted into Doflamingo's signature grin, its eyes narrowing with predatory glee. "Vergo-san~," the snail crooned, its voice syrup-thick. "Heard you've got pests."
Vergo sucked a glob of sweet-and-sour sauce off his glove, his gaze drifting to a framed photo on his desk: a younger Doflamingo, barely ten, standing atop a pile of rubble, his Conqueror's Haki flaring like a crown. Beside him, a teenaged Vergo knelt, bamboo staff in hand, a half-eaten loaf of bread stuck to his face.
"They'll be dead by dawn," Vergo said. Behind him, the Spire of Ash loomed on a map of Isla Koralia, circled in red. "The Spire makes tidy graves."
The snail's laugh was a static-filled rasp. "Efficient as ever. Just don't forget whose leash you're on."
The line went dead. Vergo rose, his shadow swallowing the room. He plucked the frenched fry from his cheek and ate it, then strode into the corridor, his staff scraping the stone floor like a butcher's knife. Somewhere in the bowels of the base, a recruit screamed.
Dawn would come soon, and so would the slaughter.
*****
Marya knelt before the submarine's mangled innards, a fuse in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. The manual lay open to a page titled "So Your Submarine's Dead (Again)", which included a helpful diagram of a stick figure crying. "This is the wrong fuse," she muttered.
"How can it be wrong?" Ace said. "It's shaped like a star. Stars are universal!"
"It's supposed to be volcanic quartz," Marya hissed. "This is a glowstick from Charlie's 'emergency rave kit.'"
Charlie gasped. "You found that?!"
The submarine groaned, echoing the crew's collective frustration. Marya wiped her brow, leaving a smudge of grease across her forehead, tossed the faulty glowstick aside, and retrieved the crystal they purchased. The fuse sparked as Marya jammed it in. The submarine shuddered to life, lights flickering like a disco run by ghosts. The emergency beacon blared, projecting a holographic SOS that briefly morphed into a dancing pineapple.
"Success!" Charlie cried. Then the lights died, and the beacon sputtered.
When a small fire erupted in the corner, Ace blew it out with another belch. "Adventure."
Charlie squinted at the manual under the glow of a seaweed lamp. "Ah! Page 304: 'If your sub fails post-fuse replacement, you may need a…'" He trailed off.
"May need a what?" Marya growled.
"It's written in… interpretive mime."
Marya snatched the manual. The diagram showed a stick figure juggling crystals while riding a seahorse.
Ace peered over her shoulder. "I think it wants us to throw a party." Marya hurled the manual at him. It bounced off his head and hit a lever, accidentally launching a torpedo into the abyss. "Oops," Ace said.
"Oops?! That was our last—!" A distant boom echoed, and the sub rocked, "...torpedo," Marya finished.
Three hours later, Marya lay under the control panel, her hair frazzled, her dagger pinning Ace's pants to the wall to keep him from "helping." Charlie had resorted to communing with the sub's wiring like a deranged therapist. "I feel you," he whispered to a sparking cable. "Society's pressures are too much, aren't they?" The cable shocked him.
"Kinky," Ace said.
Marya kicked a toolbox. "We need a volcanic quartz regulator. It's the only part that can stabilize the—"
"Wait." Charlie adjusted his glasses. "The manual mentioned that earlier! 'Regulator: A fancy rock that stops your submarine from exploding.'"
"So… we need a rock." Ace nodded sagely. "I'll grab one outside."
"It's not a rock," Marya snarled. "It's a rare crystal formed under a Spire of Ash. Which means—"
"We're going back to the murder island?!" Charlie squeaked.
Ace fist-pumped. "Lava cakes, here we come!"
Marya outlined their mission with the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner:
Sneak into Isla Koralia. Locate the volcanic quartz (likely guarded by Beast Pirates, lava serpents, or sentient sand). Don't die.
Ace raised his hand. "What about step four: Celebrate with meat?"
"Step four is shove you into a cannon."
As the trio stood on the deck, Isla Koralia's Spire loomed ahead, its shadow stretching toward them like a middle finger. The emergency beacon flickered once more, spelling HELLO in Morse code before dying permanently.
Ace slapped Charlie's back, nearly knocking him into the ocean. "Cheer up, Chuck! We've got this!"
"Got what?!"
"Dumb luck and poor survival instincts!"
Marya unsheathed Eternal Night, her mist already coiling around her boots. "Stay close. And Ace?"
"Yeah?"
"If you eat another cursed snack, I'll dismantle your digestive system."
Ace grinned, pulling a glowing mushroom from his pocket. "No promises."